


Hell's mercy

by ineffably-effable (ineffably_effable)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Deal with a Devil, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffably_effable/pseuds/ineffably-effable
Summary: Crowley has a difficult few days. Aziraphale makes a deal with the devil.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 145





	Hell's mercy

> _“CROWLEY… WE WILL WIN THIS WAR. BUT EVEN IF WE LOSE, AT LEAST AS FAR AS YOU ARE CONCERNED, IT WILL MAKE NO DIFFERENCE AT ALL. FOR AS LONG AS THERE IS ONE DEMON LEFT IN HELL, CROWLEY, YOU WILL WISH YOU HAD BEEN CREATED MORTAL. MORTALS CAN HOPE FOR DEATH. OR FOR REDEMPTION. YOU CAN HOPE FOR NOTHING. ALL YOU CAN HOPE FOR IS THE MERCY OF HELL.”_
> 
> _“Yeah?”_
> 
> _“JUST OUR LITTLE JOKE.”_
> 
> Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett

* * *

**Then** :

In the weeks that followed the _not-quite-end-of-the-world_ Aziraphale couldn't help but notice that Crowley seemed reluctant to let him out of his sight. Every time they parted ways the demon ensured they had plans to meet again soon after. Even on the rare days where they had not arranged to meet, Crowley would find some thinly-veiled pretence to stop past the bookshop; a new restaurant he thought the angel might like, a first-edition of The Bell Jar he'd spotted at an estate sale, or Kouign-amanns from Aziraphale's favourite patisserie (in _Paris)._ Whatever the excuse, it always seemed to result in drinks that extended into the early hours of the morning. Crowley had even started kipping overnight on the angel's sofa (a development that originated very late one evening when Crowley - with all the subtlety of a freight train - complained that driving home would mean sobering up, and sobering up would mean _being sober_ , and Aziraphale had _very casually_ remarked that sleeping on his sofa didn't require sobriety at all).

Whatever the cause, Aziraphale found this new quirk of Crowley's suited him just fine. If anything he was grateful it afforded him the chance to keep a close eye on the demon (the memory of a bathtub full of holy water had proven difficult to shake).

That Crowley's visits had the side-effect of keeping Aziraphale well stocked in his favourite pastries was simply an added bonus.

On this particular afternoon Aziraphale had turned down Crowley's suggestion of a picnic and insisted on doing a complete stocktake of his modified collection (following Adam's well-intentioned, but somewhat misguided, restoration).

It was a sign of how well Crowley knew him that he didn’t even try to argue. Resigned to his fate, he followed Aziraphale around the shop, alternating between misusing various bits of furniture (“Really dear, that can’t possibly be comfortable”) and interrupting to tease Aziraphale about the contents of his collection (“ _Lady Chatterly’s Lover_?! How positively scandalous. I'm impressed”). Aziraphale bore it with good humour, passing Crowley various books to hold as he re-arranged them. Crowley accepted the books with an indulgent smile, resigned to the fact the angel’s attention was focused on the shelves and not him. (Although Aziraphale did pick up on a bit of good-natured grumbling regarding his relegation to a glorified bookstand). Aziraphale was just about to suggest stopping for lunch when he heard the loud thudding of several books hitting the ground at once.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked softly, shoulders tensed. As long as he didn't turn around there remained the possibility that Crowley had simply tripped, or that this was some misguided prank. He waited, heart in throat, for a response. None came.

Crowley had vanished, leaving behind a strong smell of sulfur and one panicked angel.

**3 days later** :

Aziraphale knelt down in the center of his bookshop and surveyed his handiwork. Etched out across the floor in front of him were a series of large concentric circles, bordered in Enochian sigils, precisely drawn in chalk and then outlined again in his own blood. In the center of this display sat a small succulent and a pair of black sunglasses.

(In the last three days Aziraphale had become something of an expert on evocation, devouring every book he could find on the subject matter. He had also, reluctantly, developed a talent for breaking and entering. He justified this with the knowledge Crowley would forgive the imposition, and that the Watkins Bookshop had only themselves to blame if they refused to sell their "priceless" volumes to responsible booksellers of means).

Aziraphale lifted an ancient-looking (and recently repossessed) tome onto a stand, opening it to a bookmarked incantation. He double-checked the sigils he'd drawn against the diagrams on the page. Once satisfied he took a small dagger and sliced it quickly across the palm of his hand. He laid his hand palm down on the edge of the outermost circle, and recited the summoning spell. As he chanted the blood and chalk ignited to form a fiery portal. The flames flared higher as the volume of Aziraphale’s chanting increased. When Aziraphale uttered the final syllable the flames sank into the floor, in their wake stood a startled, but achingly familiar, demon.

“Crowley!”

The demon was bare chested, his body covered in deep gashes and welts. As severe as these injuries were, it was his wings that horrified Aziraphale. They were fully extended, half-plucked and bent at odd angles behind his back. Bones were sticking out in places where the primaries had been ripped out and they were dripping blood onto the floor.

“Aziraphale?” Crowely’s voice was hoarse, the mix of hope and uncertainty heart-breaking. He swayed on his feet. Aziraphale hurriedly broke the circle (swiping the chalk away with his foot) and rushed to catch him as he slumped forwards.

Supporting the demon's weight, Aziraphale gently pressed his palms to his back and focused on healing Crowley’s wounds. As the cuts and gashes closed he attended to Crowley’s wings. Sensing the extent of the damage he willed the bones to realign and the missing feathers to grow back. As the last of the primaries were restored Crowley tensed and pulled away from him. Aziraphale studied the demon, worried he'd inadvertently hurt him, but one look at Crowley made it clear he wasn't in pain - he was terrified. He placed an arm on Crowley's shoulder and instantly understood. Hidden amidst Crowley's aura he felt a frisson of powerful occult energy he recognized from the airbase.

Crowley let out a colourful stream of curses. He clutched Aziraphale’s arm in a vice grip. _“Listen,_ he's going to offer you a deal." Crowley looked desperate. "Whatever he says, trust me, it isn’t worth it". Crowley's nails were extended, digging painfully into Aziraphale’s arm.

"What kind of d-" Crowley cut him off with a frustrated groan.

“I’m not kidding, angel. Don’t you _dare_ accept -” Suddenly, his head lolled and his arms went slack. Aziraphale reluctantly backed away. Sure enough, when Crowley looked up, he was staring down at Aziraphale with changed eyes, the yellow irises now blood-red. This not-Crowley stepped towards him with a predatory grin.

“GREETINGS PRINCIPALITY.”

Aziraphale cringed.

“Lucifer.”

The dark lord made a “ta-dah” gesture clearly stolen from the lexicon of Crowley’s mannerisms. Aziraphale wanted to slap him. Lucifer seemed amused, and made a tutting sound.

“YOU SUMMONED WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY MINE, PRINCIPALITY. THAT WAS FOOLISH.”

“I don’t suppose you would consider releasing him?” Aziraphale asked, hoping to distract him while he cast his eyes desperately about the room for something that might exorcise Lucifer without destroying Crowley’s corporation. Lucifer laughed.

“CROWLEY’S DEFIANCE CANNOT GO UNPUNISHED. HE SHALL SUFFER GREATLY, PRINCIPALITY.” The angel’s eye twitched. ”YOU SHALL NOT SEE HIM AGAIN.”

 _Fuck._ Aziraphale thought emphatically. He racked his brain for a plan.

“Surely, you wouldn’t have come here if you thought I had nothing to offer you,” he insisted.

“AND WHAT IS IT YOU THINK I WANT?” he asked.

“An exchange.”

“CLOSE, PRINCIPALITY.” Lucifer’s smile was somehow worse than his grin. “I WANT YOU TO FALL.”

“Then we would both be your subjects,” Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t that rather defeat the purpose?”

Lucifer closed the gap between them. With Crowley’s hand, he cupped the side of Aziraphale's face. The angel pulled away, disgusted.

I'm

“AND WHAT IF I PROMISED YOU BOTH YOUR FREEDOM?”

“Define _freedom_.”

“BANISHMENT TO EARTH. WITH MY -” (he made a magnanimous hand-waving gesture) “- _BLESSINGS_.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “You’ll excuse me if I consider that offer too good to be true.”

“SUSPICIOUS, AREN’T YOU? NO WONDER CROWLEY THINKS YOU’RE SO CLEVER.” Aziraphale tried to keep his face impassive but Lucifer grinned as his comment had the desired effect. “DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT _ELSE_ HE THINKS ABOUT YOU?” Lucifer purred. “ _WHEN_ HE THINKS ABOUT YOU?”

Aziraphale glared at him.

"WE COULD ALWAYS REACH ANOTHER ARRANGEMENT. HOW WOULD YOU LIKE A DEMONIC PET TO WARM YOUR BED?" Lucifer ran Crowley's hand down Aziraphale's chest. Aziraphale clenched his teeth. "I COULD BEND HIM TO YOUR WILL." He fisted his hand in Aziraphale's shirt and the angel had enough. He grabbed Crowley's hand and peeled it off of him. Wrenching it backwards against the wrist joint until Lucifer hissed and pulled it back.

He looked delighted.

“WRATH, ANGEL? YOU’RE PRACTICALLY MINE ALREADY.”

Aziraphale pointedly ignored him.

“If I agree to fall what’s in it for you?”

“A PRINCIPALITY, FORMERLY A CHERUB, _CHOOSING_ TO FORSAKE HEAVEN FOR A DEMON? EVEN _SHE_ WOULD NOTICE THAT. THERE WOULD BE QUESTIONS ASKED. BESIDES, YOUR FALL WOULD TORTURE CROWLEY IMMEAS-”

Aziraphale didn’t roll his eyes but it was a near thing.

“All right.”

“WHAT?” Aziraphale noted with some satisfaction that Lucifer seemed wrong-footed by the interruption.

“I accept your terms. My divinity for our freedom.”

He held out his hand to shake on the arrangement and tried not to shudder when Lucifer shook it.

“VERY WELL.” He paused, posture straightening and expression turning serious. “DO YOU RENOUNCE THE ALMIGHTY OF YOUR OWN FREE WILL?”

Aziraphale glared at the occupant of his dearest companion’s body and felt his resolve strengthen. There might well be an ineffable plan but if it involved Crowley getting tortured, it could go hang.

“I do."

“SO BE IT”.

Crowley stumbled as control of his corporation was suddenly returned to him. He looked up at Aziraphale with horrified eyes.

Aziraphale tried to move towards him, but found his corporation unresponsive. Before he had time to panic - every inch of him was set aflame (literally and figuratively) with the most intense, all-consuming pain he’d ever known. He was dimly aware of falling to his knees, of Crowley attempting to stride into the flames but being held back by some invisible barrier. He could hear the demon’s screams of frustration but it took a backseat to the sensation of burning alive. Aziraphale’s resolve fled him, taking with it his courage and pride. He screamed as he felt his grace burn away. He would have begged for Crowley to kill him, if his body were obeying him. He felt like he was drowning, like each breath of air was burning and choking him from the inside out. There was nothing but pain. When the burning stopped, he had a moment - three precious seconds of mind-numbing relief - before he felt the bones in his corporation breaking, rearranging and shrinking. He opened his mouth to scream but a horrible cawwing sound came out instead. His vision blurred and blacked-out, then returned in too-sharp focus. He couldn’t seem to control his body. His wings were out but his limbs were gone and _that wasn’t right._ The pain had receded slightly but his corporation _had changed_. There was something huge approaching him and Aziraphale trembled. He tried to move but he couldn’t seem to coordinate in this new form. He tripped over his feet- _claws?_ \- and whimpered, but the sound was all wrong. His overwhelmed brain tried to focus but one thought ricocheted like a bullet, annihilating anything else, even the question of _what_ he was.

_Where was Crowley?_

* * *

If there was one thing Crowley had in spades it was will power.

He willed his plants to grow better, and they grew better. He willed his Bentley inflammable and it remained so for as long as could reasonably be expected.

So as he stood there, helplessly watching his only friend in the world consumed by hellfire, he focused all of his considerable will power on a single thought. _Aziraphale will survive this._ He focused on this because he refused to accept that the alternative was a possibility.

He clung to this thought as he waited, staring into the flames and listening to his best friend's screams. At some point he stopped breathing, sinking into an almost trance-like state as he focused on his mantra ( _Aziraphale will survive, Aziraphale will survive, Aziraphale will survive_ ). He snapped out of it only when the room, suddenly, fell silent. Before he could begin to process what _that_ meant, a loud cawing sound replaced the screaming and the hellfire cleared.

Aziraphale's corporation was gone.

Instead, all that remained was a raven, sprawled on the ground with its wings askew. As Crowley approached, it flapped its wings erratically, propelling itself away as it unsteadily found its footing. It opened its beak again to release a horrible, terrified screeching sound.

Heart-broken, Crowley knelt down a foot away from it, willing the bird to recognise him. It tilted its head, watching him closely, but keeping a wary distance between them.

“C’mon Aziraphale, it’s me,” he said soothingly, trying again to coax the bird towards him. When that didn't work he reached out with his powers to add the slightest amount of temptation to the action.

_I'm safe, you know me, you trust me._

It probably wouldn't have worked on a more experienced demon, but it seemed to work on Aziraphale.

The raven took a few tentative steps, stopping inches from Crowley’s outstretched hand. Crowley kept himself still. It still seemed to be dithering but eventually it moved to prod Crowley’s fingers with its beak. Careful not to spook it, Crowley started petting it very gently, running his fingers over soft black feathers. It warbled happily and hopped even closer. Crowely exhaled in relief.

“The worst of it’s over,” he told it, scratching under its beak “and if it’s any consolation it's not permanent," he cringed, "the shapeshifting that is - not the fall, I mean - that's uh, going to stick." _You idiot,_ he chastised himself. "This raven form," he continued quickly, "is one of your true forms now and the transfiguration only hurts the first time." 

The bird flapped its wings fretfully and Crowley hazarded a guess at what it might be thinking. "Don't worry if you can't shift back just yet, it takes some time to get the hang of it." The bird settled a little, so he assumed that was the concern. He resumed petting it, finding the action soothed his own frazzled nerves. "At least you’re nothing vile like a toad or a blobfish. I've always liked my serpent form - can be quite nice with the right rock to take a nap on - and there's- er- lots of things around here you could build a nest out of.” Crowley was aware he was babbling but he wasn't in the mood to process other thoughts (or emotions) so he continued gamely. "They're meant to be intelligent aren't they? Ravens? So that's fitting isn't it?" The raven pecked softly at his fingers, as if to say “ _enough of that”_ , and Crowely wondered whether the first sign of nervous breakdown was projecting Aziraphale’s mannerisms onto his bird form.

Assuming _his_ Aziraphale was still in there.

In Hell, there seemed to be no consensus on whether or not demons emerged from the fall with their memories intact. Some, like Crowley, remembered only fuzzy details of life before the fall. (Bits and pieces of their jobs, how they fell, the great battle.) Others weren't able to recall anything. Only a few claimed to have full recall but who knew if they were telling the truth.

Crowley steeled himself for the worst.

“Do you know what happened?” The raven trilled, and Crowley hoped he could take that as a yes. “Do you,” he paused, voice thick. “Do you know who I am?”

The raven whistled emphatically, nudging Crowley's hand with his head.

Crowley blinked rapidly. Relief flooded him.

“Well, that’s one less thing to worry about,” he said shakily.

The raven warbled, ostensibly in agreement.

"Right, well, I say we shift it to the sofa. I'm buggered."

Crowley offered his arm and Aziraphale hopped on without hesitation.

When Crowley sat down the raven hopped from his arm to his lap, then nestled against his chest. Crowley stroked his head with a light touch.

“You do realize, how extremely, disconcertingly, daft you are right?" His voice was raw, even to his own ears, and - adding to this indignity - he was horrified to realize he was welling up. “What if you hadn’t fallen... that was _hellfire_ angel. I-” he choked.

Aziraphale trilled softly, and moved his wing against Crowley's chest in a sort-of petting motion. It was oddly comforting, but even that felt wrong. The idea of Aziraphale comforting him, after sacrificing everything - he tried to move the bird off of him but it wouldn't budge.

There was a soft popping sound and then suddenly Crowley was being pulled into an embrace. This was the final straw. He buried his face in the neck available to him and, though he didn't actually sob, it was a very near thing.

“Oh, my dear.” The voice was rough, still hoarse in a way that did nothing to alleviate Crowely’s guilt. “I’m OK, really I am.” He pulled away to grasp Crowley’s face in his palms, forcing his head up to look at him. His eyes - which had always been a beautiful cerulean - were now jet black. His irises were only the slightest shade lighter than his pupils. Crowley felt a pang of grief at the loss. Aziraphale’s face was a good deal paler, but otherwise he still looked blessedly like himself.

Relief gave way to anger. Crowley pushed Aziraphale away, hissing at him.

“You reckless fool. I _warned_ you. Why didn't you lisssssten?”

“It was my choice to make.”

“Oh?" This felt better, Crowley thought. Lashing out was an excellent distraction. "An informed decisssion was it?" he snarled. "Did you realize if you were even the ssslightest bit inssssincere the hellfire would have destroyed you?!"

"It was worth it."

"Congratulations," Crowley said viciously, "your first hour as a demon and you're already lying to me."

A hint of true anger flashed across Aziraphale's features.

“It was that or let Hell keep you!" he snapped, then paused, the anger passing quickly. "How could you possibly think I wouldn’t consider _you_ worth saving?” He sounded hurt. Crowley stared at him. His black eyes were unreadable but his earnestness was expressed in every other aspect of his face. When Aziraphale (tentatively) attempted to pull Crowley back into his arms, Crowley let him.

Aziraphale rubbed his back in a soothing fashion, but the gesture elicited something unexpected - a tingling warmth. It pooled beneath Crowley’s gut and his face flushed.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley struggled to keep his voice level as he pulled away. "What are you doing?"

The ex-angel withdrew his hands guiltily.

“I’m sorry- I know I shouldn’t have- I was just trying to calm you a little.”

Crowley didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“You’re a demon now. If you want to make someone feel better, your powers don’t calm them.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened comically. “Er.. quite the opposite in fact.”

“I _didn’t_.” He looked mortified. He was also - Crowley noted with glee - turning a very fetching shade of red. Crowley took pity on him.

“Relax, it's no big deal." _Not like it was anything I hadn't felt before_ , he thought wistfully. "Might want to limit the use of your powers until you’ve gotten the hang of it though.”

“The hang of it,” Aziraphale repeated blankly, looking down at his hands like they had betrayed him.

“Aww, c'mon, it’s not that bad. You can still perform miracles and you’ll be able to sense and sway vices. You just can’t influence through love and peace and the rest of that rubbish." He did a passable imitation of Gabriel on the words "love and peace" and Aziraphale gave him a small smile, squeezing his hand.

“I can’t _sense_ love anymore either,” he said, like it had just occurred to him. “There used to be so much of it. I could always feel _Her_ love for everything, and the humans’ love for each other," he waved his hands “almost like a pleasant sort of background music.” He grimaced. “Now it just feels empty.”

Aziraphale looked up and must have picked up on the guilt Crowley was radiating. He immediately backtracked. “It’ll just take some getting used to is all." He smiled at Crowley. "I'm still _me_. I still think and feel the same. I’m still _capable_ of love. Those are the things I was truly worried about."

Crowley pursed his lips.

“Yes, even _we_ demons are _capable_ of love,” he sniped, not even attempting to keep the bitterness out of his tone. He moved to get off the sofa but Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's hands with both of his, holding them to his chest.

“That’s not what I meant.” He sounded stricken, as though he had not thought of his words being taken that way. “Of course I know _you're_ capable of love. You’re my dearest friend.” Crowley was very proud he didn't flinch at that. “But you have to admit you’re not quite like other demons." He paused. "I should hope I'll be like you in that regard.”

Crowley wasn't sure how to take that. He reached out a hand to touch Aziraphale's face, heart sinking when the (ex) angel flinched away from his touch with a pained gasp. Normally that would have been it for Crowley. He would have apologised and retreated, chastised himself for going too fast - but there was something off about the noise the angel had made. He concentrated and sensed occult energy _on_ Aziraphale. He glared at Aziraphale and received a somewhat contrite look in return.

“Take if off,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Crowley...”

“Take it off right now, or I’ll leave. I’m not kidding.”

Aziraphale cringed and removed the glamour. Underneath it he looked awful, his face was gaunt, covered with deep scratches that also appeared on his arms. Crowley realized, with horror, that they were self inflicted. The ones under his eyes were the worst, half-crescents that appeared to have been dragged downwards. His body was bruised, possibly from the first transmutation, and he was trembling. Crowley circled him, noting painful-looking blisters along the skin that grafted his wings to his back . Crowley could have kicked himself. He knew the damage falling caused... why didn’t he... why hadn’t he-

“Why?” he ground out, furious.

“I didn’t have the energy to heal myself yet.”

Crowley wondered if it was possible to black out from rage. Apparently not, because he was still conscious.

“And you didn’t think to ask me for help?” he asked, deceptively calm.

Aziraphale knew him well enough to look uneasy.

“I thought if I waited....well, dear, you only just got back from Hell yourself...”

Crowley felt his grip on his anger slipping. Served him right, falling for a creature lacking even the slightest semblance of self preservation. Crowley laid his hands on either side of Aziraphale's face and concentrated on healing him. He targeted the burns along Aziraphale's wings first (there was nothing he could do about the feathers. The burned ones would have to fall out naturally and be replaced.) Next he healed the self-inflicted wounds on Aziraphale's face and arms, although the tremors remained. He still wasn't sure how Aziraphale managed to hide that from him. He said as much to Aziraphale who looked back at him sheepishly.

"Just willpower. Always... seems to work for you." He slurred his words slightly, looking exhausted. Crowley hummed in satisfaction and eased off a little on the soporific effect he was weaving into the healing magic. Aziraphale's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I'm tired." He murmured. He looked up at Crowley accusingly with heavy-lidded eyes.

“You need to rest.” It was a non-apology.

Aziraphale huffed, but allowed Crowley to manhandle him into a reclined position on the sofa. Crowley moved to walk away but he was held back by a weak grip on his wrist.

"Stay?”

The eyes might not be the same, but Crowley was just as undone by the puppy-dog expression Aziraphale affected.

"Sure, angel,” he said thoughtlessly, cringing as he sat down next to him. Aziraphale (who didn't seem to notice the slip) shifted clumsily so that his head rested in Crowley's lap. Without thinking, Crowley ran a hand through the blonde hair.

"That's nice," Aziraphale mumbled.

Crowley hand stilled.

"What is?"

"That you still call me that," Aziraphale said sleepily. "The-" he yawned, "-the petting too."

"I'm not petting you, _angel_. I'm checking for a head injury."

"Ahuh," Aziraphale murmured softly, his breathing evening out as Crowley resumed stroking his hair.

"Cause you're an _idiot,_ a self-sacrificing ssssimpleton," Crowley continued in an affectionate, sing-song voice.

Crowley waited for a response but Aziraphale was already asleep.

With Aziraphale taken care of, it didn't take long for Crowley to succumb to exhaustion as well. He nodded off reluctantly, one hand buried in his angel's hair, the other resting protectively over his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I've been suffering some writer's block on my WIP and thought I would make A & C suffer as well.
> 
> Many thanks to [mia_ugly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/pseuds/mia_ugly), as always, for beta-reading and being her genuinely lovely self while I freak out.


End file.
